


Of Steel and Gold

by Sikadarling



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Modification, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sikadarling/pseuds/Sikadarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sollux Captor always seems to dwell at one end of the emotional spectrum or the other, never settling in between for very long.  How strange it is, then, that his two extremes are so very much alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Steel and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> So I have some really extensive headcanons about one, Mr. Sollux Captor. I wrote this little minific to explore a couple of them. Warning: this fic focuses a lot on self-harm and body mods.

It’s not like you ever start your nights out like this. 

No, no one ever does. Especially not you. 

You’re far two bu2y for this shit. 

     At any given time, there’s hundreds of thousands of things to do to keep your mind off of it. Any one of those many projects you started during an upswing in your mood, for example. Multiple instances of text editors clutter your desktop, each containing some sort of half-finished code, the damned accusatory cursor blinking white-on-black over and over again. Bits and pieces of organic hardware squirm and writhe on your respite block floor as they wait to finally be incorporated into a proper symbiotic system. Hell, you even have some stale nutrient stacks left on plates on the counter…Better not touch those, though. The grubsauce has undoubtedly congealed into an inedible cement by now. 

But no, instead of actually finishing something for once, or actually pulling your own (admittedly, too low) weight, you’re fucking staring at what used to be the smooth, grey skin of your thighs. 

Though you can’t actually remember how long ago that was. 

     Now that you’re just skin and bones, with only a little scrawny muscle holding everything together, every ridge of scar tissue just seems that much more prominent. Those raised lines cross over and under themselves, mapping out every single moment you couldn’t keep it together. You always do it on your thighs, somewhere that is easy to cover up when you’re around others, but easy enough to get at when you’re alone. Sometimes, you wish you’d had the foresight to make your fuckups look deliberate: a pattern, or a design, perhaps. Something less disgusting that you could stand to look at once in awhile. At the very least, you didn’t have to make them look so…self-inflicted. 

Only you could take something as respectable to the blood-thirsty Alternians as scars and turn them into a fucking badge of weakness. 

     But that doesn’t stop the desire for one second. The sick sort of throbbing of your blood in your veins makes you feel even worse than usual. Anymore, it’s like your body wants it just as much as your mutant brain does. You’ve got too much filthy ochre swill burning you from the inside, and it’s got to come out. You don’t buy into that hemospectrum shit like some trolls you know, but considering how many sleepless days you’ve spent with the voices refusing to give you a moment’s peace thanks to your blood color’s “gifts”…Right now, you don’t think you’d be all that upset to see every last drop of the stuff trickle out and down the drain of the ablution trap. 

     By now you’re not even sure what it was, exactly, that set you off. Could have been any number of things. Odds are it had to do with your inability to be a decent troll, yet again. You probably arbitrarily switched from being aloof and distant to petty and jealous or manic and tiring without any sort of warning, and you probably managed to infuriate and frustrate anyone that hadn’t already gotten sick of your shit. You drove everyone away once more. You never learn, do you? 

That’s probably why you hate yourself in particular, tonight. 

     You effortlessly float one of your throwing stars over to your right hand. This is why you keep them around, after all. With a bitter sort of smile, you wonder why no one ever puts 2 and 2 together. They can’t all be that dim, can they? 

Of course not, they just don’t care enough to stop you. 

     As expected, there’s a commotion from the roof. Your lusus always knows when you’re about to do it. It won’t stop you at this point, but hearing him always adds to your long list of reasons why you’re an utter waste of resources. 

The metal in your hand is warm, still, from being engulfed in psionic energy. It’s almost comforting against your skin as you press one bladed edge to your thigh. 

You press and drag. 

     It stings, sure. But that’s nothing in comparison to the relief it brings, too. For one brief moment, there’s nothing but you and the pain and your concentration. If you can’t control your traitorous thinkpan, at least you can give it a taste of it’s own medicine. At first it looks as if nothing has changed, you can’t even see the line you made. But as your bloodpusher works, tiny drops of honey-gold well up to the surface. Beads of the liquid pool into rivulets that run down your thigh.

You smile. The first genuine one in days. 

You make another cut. 

Another. 

_Another._

Twenty-two, your lucky number. 

     When it’s all over, and you’re sitting there with blood-soiled towels and dark amber flakes of dried blood caked on your legs, everything feels pleasantly numb. It’ll fade away soon enough, but for now you feel that odd mix of high and clear that you only get after you’ve indulged. You eventually shuffle your way into your ablution block to clean yourself up. As the water runs over your hands you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflective plane that hangs on the wall. 

Yeah, you still look like the sad sack of grubwaste you usually do. Sunken eyes, gaunt face, a mess of fangs too crooked for your mouth…  

_You’re a mess, Captor._

     But then you’re drawn to the bits and pieces you personally chose.  Those ornate, swirling lines carved into your larger set of horns, the artificial fork you had cut into your tongue….Tiny metal rings and studs glint in the harsh light.  Always in multiples of two, always symmetrical   Your ears started to get crowded some time ago, so you’ve started getting them above your eyes and in your lip.

     It’s one of the few things you still consistently find joy in, actually.  You like the way they make you look.  You like the way they make other trolls look at you.  You like having the exact knowledge of how to care for each new modification.  You might not be great at taking care of yourself in general, but this…this one thing is something you haven’t fucked up yet.

Maybe you’ll get a new set once you’re not so deep in the throes of self-loathing. 

     The irony doesn’t exactly escape you, that on either end of the spectrum you want to shove bits of metal through your body. But at the end of the night, that’s your choice. That’s something in your life that wasn’t a given from your unfortunate hatching. Your brain and body have never exactly felt at ease with each other: your brilliant mind hates the constant nagging for things like food and sleep, while your body simply refuses to respond after awhile. It’s a pain, really. You wouldn’t take up your precious time and energy to care for someone you platonically hated, why should you do it for yourself? 

If your brain has to be trapped inside this body, like hell you’re not gonna do what you can to make it bearable. 

And yeah, right now that involves carving and piercing and cutting and burning… 

Anything that makes you look less like _you_. 

You are Sollux Captor, and you are losing yourself in the fantasy of your own destruction. 

What will you do?


End file.
